


dearest, you said

by ReSugance



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Soft Han Jumin, he's so in love with you, i'm so soft for him you don't understand, lowkey sub jumin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReSugance/pseuds/ReSugance
Summary: He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of waking up to you.
Relationships: Han Jumin/Main Character, Han Jumin/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 168





	dearest, you said

**Author's Note:**

> h-hELLO, i am in fact once again, NOT dead lol! i've just been extremely busy with classes, and with quarantine still ongoing, i picked up mysme again. i've fallen in this fandom and hoping it's not dead bc i have a lot of love for these characters haha. of course i'll still be writing primarily for bts so this isn't me falling off the wagon or anything - updates and new fics are still coming soon. this was kind of a side project bc i got so fixated on jumin LOL. please enjoy and as always, please lmk what you think <3

You absently trace nonsensical patterns on the broad expanse of his bare back. He sleeps on his stomach, one arm curled around your waist, drawing you flush against him. He’s so warm and feels so solid, muscles bunching underneath your palm as you run a hand down his side, marvelling at the hard ridges of his body. Sunlight peeks through the semi-translucent curtains, bathing him in a soft golden halo. The silk sheets rest dangerously low against his hips.

You can feel his every breath, chest rising and falling rhythmically, his face tucked into the crook of your neck.

“Mmmm.”

He’s slow to rouse today. He’s usually the first one up, though the pull away from you and the warmth of your body is always a hard-fought struggle. He dresses slowly, likes to sit at the edge of the bed, mattress dipping slightly to accommodate his weight as he drags sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down your bare chest. You don’t make a habit of sleeping naked—you just never bother to re-dress. Neither of you do.

He’s ravenous. Always hungry, always starving. Greedy for you, for more of you, for _all_ of you, for your love, to _give_ his love, and, he admits belatedly, a little desperate.

And how could he not be? You’re always so beautiful, so peaceful when you dream, and he hates to leave you when all he wants is to sink to his knees and admire you for hours to come. You are gorgeous, a piece of art come to life and he is wary of losing you. He will always be afraid. But he has gotten better at—controlling his fear. Waking to you everyday has quelled much of his anxiety.

Some days you wake with him, and you dress each other slowly, a long, deep kiss with every button done, unsure if it is seduction or an unwillingness to part. Always both.

On those days, you do his tie and pull him close with it, mouth crushed hotly against his, and he snarls your name, that large hand of his gripping your waist and pulling you tightly against him, drowning in each other until he’s backing you against the wall, rutting against each other like horny teenagers, wanting, _needing_ —

But most mornings you blink awake soundlessly, as if attuned to his every movement. He trails a hand over your cheek, smile sweet. The one he’s only ever given you, the only person to ever draw such overwhelming emotions of affection and tenderness. It wells inside of him like a wave, unlocks parts of him he never knew existed. He feels—so _alive_. You turn your head and kiss his palm, and his heart leaps and clenches when you nuzzle into him.

He, despite valuing punctuality above much else, is nearly always late. He loathes to part from you. Kisses you for a long time in the morning as if to make up for the time he knows will be spent apart longing for your touch, your embrace. You.

He finally tears himself away, reluctant and agonized, when Jaehee’s name lights up on his cell. _Your car is waiting downstairs_ , it says. _Your 8am is here. Please don’t be late._

And it’s an important meeting—it always is. He just—can’t. But then you thumb his cheekbone and smile—and oh, does your smile make you glow, makes you bloom and his heart flickers again—and you say, “Go, darling. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He has your blessing, and it’s ridiculous to think you might disapprove otherwise, so he nods and he replies huskily, “I will bring back good news, my love. Don’t go anywhere. Just stay by my side.”

And he kisses your forehead one last time, and he leaves.

But today—today is a weekend. Today, he has no meetings, no calls to take, no reports or projects to think of or oversee. Today, he’s just a man deeply, irrevocably in love with the woman who owns his heart. Owns it, and cherishes it like it is the world’s only treasure.

So he stirs slowly. His eyes are hypnotising, you think mildly. They’re a soft grey, like downy feathers. Stormy when he’s agitated. Never with her—he doesn’t think he could ever be angry at you. You were so—rational, and kind. If anything, he wishes you would be more selfish—you could be so much greedier with him.

“Good morning, husband,” you whisper.

“My lovely wife,” he says sleepily, smiling lopsidedly at you. You can feel the way his lips trace the syllables against your skin. He sounds so—raspy, the low timbre of his voice dipping to a quiet rumble.

The night was long, and the various marks on your bodies can more than attest to that. Your fingers dig into a bruise on his v-line. He groans, pleasure spiking in his blood as he nips at your collarbone.

“Darling, do not tempt me if you do not wish to remain in bed for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. His fingers tangle in your hair, pressing you into the mattress as he kisses you softly.

“Would that be such a bad thing?” You tease when you part. He looks so good, so—wonderfully _domestic_ , as he leans over you, arms caging you in. His ebony locks are silky, deliciously dishevelled and falling over his eyes as you twirl a strand, biting back a sly grin. He kisses you again, unable to draw too far, equally as tempted and enthralled.

“I am not opposed. On the contrary, it is very appealing.” He moves down to kiss your inner thigh. “However … You must be hungry. For real sustenance.”

“Mmmm. Don’t wanna get up.” You feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin. You’re so cute, he thinks. He adores you.

“But I would like to make you some pancakes.” He rarely gets to indulge in these lazy mornings. Before you, he’d always had his chef prepare balanced meals, never thought much of it—eating was a required mechanism necessary for functionality. Now, though, with you—you cook his meals, sometimes ending in great failure (with much laughter and test testing coaxing) and other times with much success (he doesn’t think he’s ever eaten so much in his life; it’s a practice in restraint, and he’s never been one to overindulge), and he finds the action of eating a meal with someone he cares for— _loves_ —is another experience entirely. There is warmth and comfort, an unbidden sense of—this inexplicable feeling of—he doesn’t know how to explain it—like it was _right_. It’s easy to lose himself with you.

He comes home to your laughter and your hips swaying to the music—sometimes classical, jazzy, other times mainstream pop, he doesn’t really have a preference for music, he likes anything that makes you smile and dance like no one’s walking; head thrown back and belting out the lyrics—the smell of something delicious tickling his senses. Sometimes you don’t hear him return, the muted click of the door shunned by the music. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing his suit jacket and loosening his tie before draping himself over you, kissing your temple.

He feels you startle, turning off the stove and setting the pan aside, half-done, and turns in his hold.

“Welcome back, honey.” You beam. Oh, and he falls in love with you all over again.

“Every time I see you, see that smile, it reminds me of how meeting you, loving you, _marrying_ you, was the best decision of my life,” he murmurs. He’s so lovesick. He knows. You’ve changed him for the better, and it never fails to astound him. Zen only loves too well to remind him.

He can never wait to return home. And it’s exactly that—a _home_. This place, your heart, it’s _home_. This penthouse has never felt like home—not really. It was a place that housed his belongs, where Elizabeth the 3rd slept and lived, but it was not a place he attached much sentiment to. But now this place—it was yours, too. _“Ours,”_ you liked to say. And he found himself looking forward to returning every day.

Sometimes you stay like that, holding each other and swaying gently to the music. Sometimes you pull him to the living room and you dance, framed by the blinking lights and gleaming stars behind those large glass planes—like something out of one of those romantic movies you managed to get him to watch with you. Sometimes he sweeps you off your feet, swallowing your surprised squeaks and carries you to bed, makes love to you tenderly, sealing his promises with every touch, every kiss.

“ _Strawberry_ pancakes?” You say now, smiling. Your fingers trail his cheeks. You’re like him—insatiable, always seeking him, his touch, the heat of his skin, his clear gaze. He’s grateful. The threads loosen, like you’re pulling at them, freeing him with every word, every look, every action. There’s only one string now—the one that ties him to you. And he would move heaven and hell before he lets it be cut.

“Of course,” he replies. He’s smiling too—he does that a lot now, but only with you, really.

You seem to mull over his offer. The urge to remain in bed is powerful, he understands. Before you can open your mouth, a streak of white darts by you, landing next to your pillow.

 _“Meow.”_ Elizabeth the 3rd nuzzles you, fur tickling your nose.

You laugh. “Good morning to you too, Elly.”

 _“It’s Elizabeth the 3 rd,” _he would have insisted before.

You and Saeyoung, he thinks wryly. Two peas in a pod. He’s a little jealous, truth be told. You _get_ him—get his jokes, his humour, his mask and his struggles, his pain and his background. You seem to get everyone. Part of your charm, your character—you’re not rich, not politically powerful, but you—you sit and you listen, you _see_ them. For who they are, all that they’ve been through and all that they _could_ be. Maybe that’s what made all the difference—your words, your presence changed them, changed _him_. That’s also why he knows that Saeyoung is—he banishes the thought immediately.

You chose him. Chose being with him, chose to share this life together—Elizabeth the 3rd rubs his cheek. He smiles, scratching her head. She purrs, meowing softly before jumping off again. She disappears over the corner toward the kitchen, where her bowl is.

“I believe that is our cue to follow her,” he chuckles. He kisses you one last time, lingering for a heartbeat before he rises, pulling you along.

The silk sheets slip from your naked figure, and his gaze drops in appreciation. “Mmm. My eyes are up here, Mr. Han.”

“My apologies, Mrs. Han. You just look so … _ravishing_.” He kisses your knuckles. He’s taking liberties, he knows. But he’s not sorry—not really. He isn’t because you let him—you _like_ him like this—shameless in his desire for you.

“Ever the charmer.” You yelp when he lifts you up.

“Careful. Zen may not like having his title taken away.” His jokes, his dry wit—you love them.

Your arms loop over his neck, goosebumps raising as the cool air hits your skin. He doesn’t bother with a robe, either. Your palm rests against his pectorals. He’s warm. You lean your head against his chest, humming softly to yourself.

“You seem particularly happy today.”

“I’m always happy with you.” You smile, looking down.

“I feel the same. This joy that wells up inside of me … I hope we share this happiness forever, my love.” He tips your chin up, kissing you softly. You flush delightfully under his touch.

He lets you down when you reach the master bathroom.

He helps you into the shower when it filters at just the right temperature, the glass divide a mere illusion because there are no doors here. Exposed.

“Would it be ill-advised for me to take you against the wall?” he murmurs into your hair. Because you look—exquisite. Water slides down your body, sparkles under the sunlight that streams through the windows.

“Please do,” you breathe, and he picks you up easily, wrapping your legs around his waist and kisses you deeply. It feels like you’re caught in a rainstorm, water cascading over you, you taste it on your tongue, the faint scent of his cologne—something richly seductive and elegant, almost embodies his very essence—and something undeniably _him_ is heady, makes your head spin pleasurably as you moan.

 _“Jumin_ ,” you cry out. Oh, his name falling from your lips does all kinds of things to him. His hips stutter, control thinning, and he dips his head to suckle a ring of blooming purple under your ear, desperately struggling to hold back.

He growls, the sound so close you tremble in his hold, a shiver coursing down your spine as your fingers dig into his shoulder blades. Your nails break skin.

 _“Ah—”_ He gasps, hand slamming against the tiles beside your head as he ruts into you sloppily. “Darling, I— _ngh_ —I’m—”

“Me too,” you whisper, clutching at him. You’re chest to chest, not a breath of space between the two of you, it feels like you’re melting—where do you end, where does he begin?

 _“Jumin,”_ you sigh against his mouth.

And he falls all over again.

* * *

“Work is strictly banned.”

He smiles, pressing a brief kiss to your temple as you slide onto his lap. He shuts off his phone as soon as the device pings in confirmation.

“Apologies, my love. It was a work email,” he murmurs, hand running down your back soothingly. He can’t stop himself from touching you—wherever and whenever you were together, he couldn’t help but reach for you, an arm wrapped protectively around you at all times. He’s a little touch-starved, a little lovestruck.

“No more, or I’ll have to punish you,” you say playfully. He heats up at the underlying promise that warns him you’re serious, flushing lightly. Your breasts are pressed against him, the silk material of your robe leaving little to imagination, molding to the peaks of your nipples.

He swallows, throats suddenly dry. “Yes, darling.”

You flash him another smile. It’s a little wicked, a little coy. “Good.”

Your hair is still damp, and the strands tickle his neck as you tuck yourself close. He blinks rapidly, eyes prickling. It’s so—domestic, dozing on the cushions without any semblance of time, with his wife draped over him, tracing the raised lines on his chest. His own robe is parted widely at the front—you like it, like the access it gives you and the way it frames his broad body.

Elizabeth the 3rd, stomach now full, meows happily from where she’s curled up on the other seat.

“I want to stay this way. Until the end of time, this life and beyond. I want to choose you, and I hope you will choose me,” he whispers, voice barely audible and wistful.

“Oh, Jumin,” she says, smiling as she sits up to look at him. Your eyes—your _eyes_ , they’re warm and glowing and soft and he just— “I will _always_ choose you.”

He just loves you. So much.


End file.
